How Will the Party End?

by Thomas Hall

Realtor, Rabble-Rouser

Author website

Growing up as a kid, I remember my mom and dad throwing a lot of parties. They were the kind of folks who liked to “entertain”. It seems nobody entertains like my parents these days. It was usually on a Friday or Saturday night – my mom would order pizza – her hair in rollers – and my brothers and sisters and I would eat before 6. Immediately after dinner, it was bath time. Once upstairs we’d be relegated to the master bedroom and forced to watch The Brady Bunch on the black and white TV set.

Unless we were dying, we were not to set foot on the stairs – God help us if we ever set foot on the first floor.

Sometimes we’d sit at the top of the stairs and listen in on the festivities. I knew when mom had one too many Manhattans because she’d whoop it up – her laugh was the loudest. You knew things were getting good – the noise level would increase and the laughter became louder and more frequent. It wasn’t a real party unless the cigarette smoke began to linger in the upstair’s hallway.

Everybody liked my parent’s parties.

I remember one party in particular – it was a family party – a rare event – the kids were included. My mom was the consummate hostess – she used to use the “good stuff” – silver-plated footed bowls for snacks, sterling silver cutlery and china for dinner. Back then when people entertained, it was more of a production. Mom could have won an Oscar – everything was just so.

Even at a young age, I was a rabble rouser. My younger brother Mark and I concocted a plan to replace the mixed nuts in one of the silver bowls with a spicer snack – something with more kick – one that would really add some zest and zing to the cocktail hour.

Our secret? Why Gravy Train dog kibbles of course.

Mark was instructed to nonchalantly remove the bowl from the coffee table, dispose of the nuts and meet me in the pantry. Upon his arrival, I scooped generous handfuls of the dog food and placed it in the bowl. I was to then casually place the bowl on the table. Upon full execution of our scheme, we felt it best to be as far away from the family room as possible – but close enough to witness the exact moment of consumption. The back deck offered a good view through the patio door, but out of plain site. We took cover behind the barbeque.

Skip Kineram – the son of my dad’s business partner – happened to be at the party that day. He was about 8 years old. He was the first to partake of the morsels. So did my mom’s friend. Perhaps our finest moment was when my mom’s friend grabbed a few nibbles and began chewing.

Immediately she began to slightly bend at the waist, placed one hand on her chest – slightly tapping it, while violently waving her other hand in a fan like motion in front of her mouth, kinda like when your mouth is on fire.

“Why Kathy” my mom’s friend said, “these snacks have quite a kick!”

Already engaged in another conversation, my mom turned to her friend – slightly taken aback at her unusual posture.

“What was that Jeanne? ARE YOU ALRIGHT?? my mom asked with concern.

“Your snacks – they are really spicy!” Jeanne retorted.

I noticed my mom glancing over at the coffee table. Her eyes immediately became four times larger than her eye sockets. Almost at that precise moment, Skip projectile vomited on the shag carpet in the family room. There was no doubt what Skip had eaten.

Suffice it to say, that particular party did not end well.

I share this story because I cannot help but find parallels to today’s political climate. I’d like to impart a few words of wisdom to the two presidential candidates.

When a party starts serving up the Gravy Train, it rarely ends well.